


How to Get a Hard Pass

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Smut, Hotch is cocky, Innuendo, M/M, Praise Kink, Reid doesn't mind, Teacher-Student Relationship, Voyeurism, neither of them have any chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: There's an FBI trainee named Spencer Reid in the class Hotch is teaching, and that'd all be just fine if Hotch wasn't completely distracted by wanting to be in Spencer Reid instead. But there’s no way he’s going to give his student an inch—or eight—until he’s damn good and ready to do so on his own terms.Spencer Reid has other plans.





	1. A journey starts with a single step. He prefers to leap.

**Author's Note:**

> Smut smut ridiculous smut, you're all welcome. This started out serious and ended up a ridickulous excuse to have Reid banging teacher!Hotch, I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.
> 
> Thanks to Owlish for the completely non-smutty and sensible prompts that I've smutted up absolutely.

Spencer thinks it might be a mistake. Some sort of terrible, shared hallucination that’s brought him here, sitting in a lecture hall filled with FBI recruits who all fit in here better than he ever will. There’s a wiry guy on one side of him, the type that’s all skin and muscle with an eagle-eyed focus Spencer envies right now, his mind darting from point A to H without a pause. The girl on his other side is tall and at ease in her body, the kind of girl no one ever uses the adjective ‘surprisingly’ before describing as ‘strong’. And then there’s Spencer in the middle: twenty-two years old, more brain than brawn, and with no idea what he hopes to achieve. He’s smart, sure, but so is everyone else here.

Sinking in the uncomfortably wooden seat, he locks his gaze on the projection screen at the front of the room and wonders if he’s even going to pass. Their trainer isn’t there yet, the hall abuzz with people chattering, making connections, making friends. No one speaks to Spencer. That’s not surprising, honestly. He’s the kind of kid who blends in, even when he’s not trying to.

And right now? Right now, he’s trying.

The door opens and a man walks in. He doesn’t do so loudly or in a way that demands attention; perhaps it’s because of this that he immediately has the attention of everyone in the room anyway. Spencer’s breath catches a bit when the man comes to a stop in the centre of the space in front of the seats, surveying the collected students with a gaze that takes each and every one of them apart in seconds. It’s a dark-eyed stare that sinks right to something deep inside Spencer, suddenly finding himself sitting ramrod straight and meeting those eyes. It’s integral that he meets them—he can’t _not_. After all, despite his fear, despite his worries, Spencer’s not the kind of person who doesn’t rise to a challenge—this, being here at the FBI Academy? This is a challenge. It’s a leap from academia to here, missing all the small steps he could have taken in between, and meeting this man’s eyes—this man who looks like the FBI would bleed if he was cut, so absolutely agent-like he is in his suit and tie and sharp profile—is yet another leap right into the deep end.

Their gazes catch, and hold. Unlike everyone else in the room, all those students who have fallen quiet under that loaded stare, he doesn’t skim past Spencer. He stares right at him, until Spencer feels pinned against the back of chair, locked down, flayed open. This man, this agent, he’s looking at Spencer and seeing everything and Spencer’s never wanted that more.

It’s an obscenely new feeling. Nothing he’s ever had before.

He can’t look away.

“My name is Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” the man says in a voice that’s as steady as the rest of him, deep and low and laced with possibility. Spencer gets a sinking twist to his gut, one that turns hot and familiar as those eyes still hold him. “I’ll be your supervisor for the next two months, until your regular teacher can return. How many of you have had previous experience in the field?”

Just like that, the feeling of being trapped by those eyes is gone. Agent Hotchner looks away. Spencer can sink back in his chair, disappear once more, as hands around him erupt into the air and hide his shame. It’s not the only thing he’s working to hide; as Agent Hotchner turns towards the board to write something up there, Spencer slides his tote across his lap and tries to focus on the lesson instead of picturing being trapped in entirely a different kind of way by the man in front of him.

He’s always had a preference for teachers.

 

 

There’s a student in his class, third row to the back and two seats from the wall. Hotch notices him first because he’s entirely unnoticeable, seemingly attempting to blend in with the seats behind him by wearing a cardigan overtop of his FBI windbreaker that’s the exact same shade of grey as the wood. And, for a while, that’s all Hotch knows of him—eyes hidden by glasses that are lit white by the lights overhead, a mop of barely-brushed hair, and that cardigan. But, his gaze burns. It’s not unexpected, being watched by the students he’s working to train after a stuff-up in the field left him on Rossi’s shit-list for being ‘rash’, but there’s something in the way this student watches him that’s different. Intriguing. Maybe it’s because he’s young, younger than any other student there—Hotch is certain too young to be training, even, but he knows better than to question Gideon without reason. More likely it’s because he never speaks, just hunches low with his eyes hidden behind those glasses.

Half of Hotch wishes the man would sit closer, the other half enjoys the distance. There’s something captivating about the unknown and he has a dark suspicion that, any closer, and the hints of sharp cheekbones and a jawline that’s hypnotic would be more distracting than his annoyance at being thrown in front of a classroom of trainees as a ‘lesson in humility’.

Hotch just keeps teaching and maintaining a cool professionality, until the day the student’s bag breaks. Pens and books scatter under his chair as the rest of the students file out after class, the man working to grab his belongings as fast as he can without getting in people’s way. It’s impossible, as a pen is kicked five rows down and a notebook three rows over. Hotch watches, wincing at the bright red flame of those cheeks as the man ducks low and waits out the crush of people to leave, before the door slams shut behind the last one and leaves them alone.

The notebook is five steps up; Hotch leaps them with an ease that’s probably unneeded, and definitely showing off. He’s not sure why, but it feels like showing off, bending to pick up the notebook and straightening to find the student watching him. Up here with him, in the seats instead of down there on stage, his glasses don’t obscure his eyes. They’re hazel and wide and flick quickly up to Hotch’s eyes, away from his ass.

It’s not unexpected, the line of heat those eyes leave behind them.

“You’re quiet in class,” he says, holding the notebook out just far enough that the man is going to have to shuffle towards him to take it. “Disengaged or shy?”

There’s another flush, the man’s throat bobbing as he swallows. He’s so thin that the motion is obvious, his crookedly buttoned shirt open just enough to reveal a collarbone that Hotch could cut his mouth open on, if he wanted to.

He wants to.

“Shy,” is the expected answer, a soft, nervous rasp. “Your teaching style is supremely engaging, I promise. I just have trouble…”

“Speaking up?” Hotch offers for him as he trails off, taking pity and stepping close to deposit the notebook between them. “You shouldn’t be afraid. I don’t bite.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke, perhaps him channelling too much David Rossi, but the response is unmistakable: those hazel eyes darken, the flush pools down into that snippet of throat visible through his shirt, long fingers fumbling the book down into his lap. And there’s a long beat where they look at each other and Hotch realises: this man is reading him just as easily as he is. There aren’t any secrets between them concerning what they want, and that’s shocking. Hotch hasn’t been profiled this easily in a look since Jason Gideon that first time, in Seattle. It if was any other context, he’d be asking for his number.

“What’s your name?” he asks instead.

“Spencer Reid.” This, at least, is said with some level of confidence.

Hotch nods in what he hopes is a firm manner, leaving him feeling dazed instead. “Well, Spencer Reid,” he says. This should be a firm dismissal of a teacher to a student; it’s not. It’s absolutely a promise, and in the kind of voice he shouldn’t be using here. God, he needs to get laid. Mess this up and he’ll have Rossi on his ass, and not in the way he’s thinking right now. “I’ll see you next week?”

It’s a question.

Spencer answers.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Hotch notes that Spencer doesn’t leave his seat until he’s walked away, ducking from the room with his shoulder bag held tight to his front. And it’s perilous what happens next—reckless, even, and he’s loath to prove Gideon right.

But it’s also the dangerous kind of exciting, and Hotch has always been a sucker for that kind of thrill.

 

 

This has never been on any curriculum that Spencer’s studied under before, but there’s a strange game of cat and mouse beginning between him and one A. Hotchner. In class, Spencer doesn’t get away with being silent anymore—the questions Hotch directs at him are often unrelated, always esoteric, and far more difficult than those that the other students get. Spencer assumes that between now and their strange, danger-laced meeting, Hotchner has looked up his file and discovered why he’s there. That’s the only explanation Spencer can think of for why Hotchner is now driving him so hard, harder than any other student, calling upon him so often that Spencer loses his muted desire to remain silent and replaces it instead with a pigheaded determination to prove that he can rise to any height that’s asked of him. The older man is aggravatingly frustrating, with his cool stare and unbothered regard, barking questions at him and barely giving him any quarter with the answers. No matter how much he studies trying to guess where Hotchner is going to strike next, the best Spencer can get with his responses is a wry, “Adequate answer,” and, _fuck_ , he’s starting to get Pavlov’d by the word ‘adequate’.

He’s always glad that Hotchner never calls on him towards the end of the class, and that the lecture hall has emptied enough as people drop out of the course, that he has a private seat towards the back he doesn’t have to leave until he’s ready—because he’s never harder than he is in those moments when Hotchner is staring him down and demanding he be better than he already is.

The game changes slightly one day.

“Stay after class, Reid,” Hotch says in a deadpan voice, an offhand comment, and Spencer nods with his throat going dry and heat sparking up and down his spine. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not what he gets. Hotchner, this time, doesn’t come to him, instead pulling up a seat and sitting calmly behind the desk, waiting for Spencer to approach him.

He does, every step measured and with those eyes on him the entire time.

“Do you know why I asked you to stay back?” Hotchner asks quietly when Spencer reaches him. Too quietly—Spencer either has to shuffle closer or ask him to speak up.

He shifts closer.

“No, sir.”

Hotchner nods. Spencer tries to guess his age—thirty? Thirty-one? “Your academic merit is astounding,” he says. Oddly, Spencer doesn’t feel much at all from this compliment, just a dull buzz of acceptance. “Physical classes begin next week, as does target training. I’ve looked at your entry scores. You’re far below standard.”

The heat is searing, rushing him from his head to his toes in a wave of vicious shame. Spencer winces back from that truth, heart hammering and body unsure of what’s happening right now. Is he failing? He’s never failed anything in his life, let alone _this_. One of the most important tests he’s ever going to take, and this could be it. Out the door before given a chance.

“Sorry… sir.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hotchner answers sharply, standing and stepping one step closer, into Spencer’s personal space. Spencer doesn’t move back, the heat darkening. Something jolts in his gut, dropping right down into his dick and causing a dangerous chain-reaction as his body misreads that closeness and sharpens every inch of arousal Spencer’s feeling right now. “Sorry doesn’t improve those scores, Reid. Practise does. Constant, hard practise. Are you up for that?”

It’s with a wry acceptance that Spencer is willing to admit to himself that his dick is definitely up for something, although probably not what it thinks it is. And he can barely speak through the biting terror of being half-aroused in front of this terrifyingly competent man at least eight years his senior, despite being almost sure that the cut of his pants hides it effectively, despite being almost certain that Hotchner somehow knows _anyway_.

“I can try.”

And Hotchner smiles, the sharp façade breaking and leaving him looking softer somehow. “I know,” he says, his voice low. “You’ll do best with one-on-one. If you show up two hours early to your scheduled sessions, I’ll be waiting. Don’t disappoint me.”

And, just like that, he’s gone, vanishing from the room and taking with him all the air.

Spencer doesn’t go two hours early to training.

He goes three.

 

 

Hotch keeps it professional. He owes that to Dave, right? That’s what he keeps telling himself anyway, in a constant mantra over the next three weeks of correcting Spencer’s position and posture as he slowly improves with his weapon, right up to the week before he’s due to be assessed.

It’s no secret that he’s terrified. Hotch can practically taste the anxiety rolling off of him, even when he’s trying to hide it, and there’s a small part of him that desperately wants to help. He offers extra sessions, discovering that it’s next to impossible to find a moment when their schedules don’t conflict. And they’ve kept it professional to this point, the whole way through, until they realise that the best time they can do is late Thursday night.

The range is empty, with just them and an absent attendant. Despite the hours that they’re spending together slowly ticking up, they don’t talk about their personal lives or their interests or anything other than their work and study. They never have, and they don’t start tonight, Hotch setting him up in his booth and watching him critically.

It’s about then that he notices several things, things he should have noticed before but had been distracted by the procedure of preparation. One: Spencer is in casual clothing which, honestly, makes sense seeing as neither is on-duty right now—more sense than Hotch’s suit. Two: his casual clothing is jeans. They’re jeans that hang just a little too low on hips that aren’t wide enough to hold them, the man’s shirt pulling up just that tiny bit every time he aims his weapon. It becomes more captivating than Hotch’s ‘stay professional’ mantra, that tiny snippet of pale skin and the tantalising whisper of the waistband of his underwear with every round of shots. One part of Hotch is still giving advice between rounds. The other part is wondering how warm that skin is, the texture against his fingertips. Whether their bodies will click together like missing puzzle pieces.

And he’s professional, until he’s not. Spencer doesn’t really need his posture corrected or, at least, no more than he usually does. But Hotch still says, “Lower your weapon,” to him as he walks up behind him, giving him plenty of warning of his approach. It’s like a stop-motion picture of all his usual mistakes, one hand on Spencer’s hip as he moves his body into a better shape, the other shifting his shoulder. It’s professional, until it’s not, the hand on Spencer’s hip slipping up instead of away, a single finger brushing that line of bared skin. It is warm. Warm and soft, and Spencer’s breath puffs out in a soft _oh_ at the touch. The touch doesn’t break, just a fingertip of pressure, both of them lingering. Stuck between stop and go, between moving on or fucking up.

They fuck up and, looking back on it, Hotch is pretty sure that it was inevitable ever since they caught each other’s gaze that first time.

He flattens his palm, sliding it under that shirt, just barely, curling it around that narrow hip and feeling bone, skin, warmth. So much warmth. A pulse, somewhere.

“Wait,” Spencer breathes sharply. Hotch stops immediately, his whole body off-kilter.

“Is that a ‘stop’ wait or a ‘wait’ wait?” he clarifies, his voice tight and body strung hard. Instead of answering, Spencer lays his gun on the bench and wipes his hands on his pants, his body leaning into Hotch’s touch. If Hotch steps forward, they’ll be tucked together, Spencer curved back into him. Their bodies locked together, invisible from anyone along the rows of booths.

Hotch steps forward. Instead of saying _stop_ , Spencer leans into that. He’s still looking forward at his target, his breath coming fast and heart hammering, as Hotch tucks his body around him, his hand sliding around until it comes to rest along his stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans. They fit. It’s intoxicating.

Spencer twitches slightly at his stroking fingers on the warm skin of his stomach, murmuring, “You’re hard already,” and Hotch shudders along, letting his hips roll forward in a slow confirmation before splaying his fingers and moving them down as though asking permission to check for himself. A nod against his cheek is his answer, Spencer’s hair blocking his view enough that he closes his eyes anyway, jaw resting on the ear protection around the other man’s neck as his fingers dip low, pausing at the button. Over or under? He’s already reckless, may as well be rash.

The question is answered for him as Spencer’s hands dart down, undoing his own belt, button, and fly in a wordless plea, arching his back in Hotch with his hands snapping up to grip the bench where his weapon rests. Safety on and unloaded, Hotch is pleased to note at a glance, before he accepts that invitation and slides his hand down further. It’s a humid kind of warmth, the barest hint of sweat on his fingertips as he skates the promise of wiry hair before skimming soft cotton, down down down, until he finds what he wants: a hard line of heat culminating in a patch that’s deliciously damp to the touch. Twice he rubs his fingers over that patch before curling his palm around the cock that jerks hungrily up, even through the underwear, rolling his grip down twice more again in a loose-firm rub that he feels roll right through the man against him.

“Ahh _hhh-fuh…ck_ ,” Spencer chokes, his fingers white on the bench, his body jerking back into Hotch’s. Hotch is firm, unyielding, not giving an inch despite how hard he is right now. He gets his reward; he lays his hand flat and lets Spencer buck into it, the cotton under his fingers now damp enough that he knows he’ll be able to taste him.

One of them bumps the button that brings the target close, the noise startling them both. They stare at it, both flushed, both sweaty, both a little lost in the moment. Spencer doesn’t seem to know what’s happening, his entire keen-eyed focus lost as Hotch keeps up that relentless pressure on his cock. Hotch, however, studies the target as it comes closer, using his other hand to tug the ear protection loose from Spencer’s throat and drop it down beside them. Ear and throat bared now, he tucks close and nips at the skin there, sucking fast and rocking his hips forward at the same time before murmuring, “You missed twice.”

“I… what?” Spencer arches in his grasp to stare at him, those hazel eyes deliciously distracted, his lips bitten pink.

Hotch stares him in the eyes as he repeats himself, no longer moving his hand, just letting Spencer rub against it with breathy gasps as he tries to clumsily get himself off using just Hotch’s hand. It’s a power play, and it works, Spencer’s entire body suddenly tightening against him as he tenses hard, knowing what’s coming. “You missed twice,” he says with careful force, pushing hard against him so that Spencer is forced between the bench and his cock. It’s rough but the man seems to like it, mouth slipping open and staying that way as his eyes turn completely unfocused. “Barely adequate performance, Reid. You can do better.” That gets a whimper, no longer any rhythm to the way Spencer is rutting against his hand. They break eye contact, Spencer buckling over and rasping out a wet breath into the hand he’s leaning his mouth on, one of Hotch’s hands on his hip the other still in his pants. “Promise me you’ll do better. You _will_ do better.”

There’s two more wet breaths before he rasps out, “I will,” in the kind of voice that, if Hotch wasn’t already aroused beyond sensibility, would have him ready to fuck the man in a heartbeat. He’s pictured this in every possible variation, ever since the first day he realised he could turn the man on with just a word. Payback for how many lectures Hotch has given with his cock aching to be touched; how many nights he’s gone home alone and had to pull over halfway there to jack off into a tissue just so he can concentrate on the drive. Payback for making him unable to come anymore unless it’s with the mental image of those hazel eyes watching him with a desperate need to be _praised._

“You will what?”

“Do better,” Spencer manages, his hips moving in jagged, erratic thrusts that Hotch know mean he’s close, too close to think about what his brain is doing to his mouth as it drives him relentlessly towards only one outcome. “I will do better, I promise, I will, I will, I _ahhh_ —” And he slows with three long, slow strokes of his hips, Hotch clutching him close and burying his nose into the crook of his shoulder as his whole body winds tight before releasing. A hot, thick pulse of come into Hotch’s palm, through the cotton that’s so wet now it slaps against his hand, and Spencer buckles. Hotch supports him, holding him up through the aftershocks of unexpectedly coming, only realising after that he’s rubbing his own cock frantically against the ass pressed to his crotch, rutting forward with a sated grunt from Spencer with every thrust.

“Good boy,” Hotch murmurs, his own cock responding in kind as Spencer’s twitches with slow interest in his palm and a final, half-hearted spurt of warmth denotes how much he likes _that_. “I’m not going to come.” Spencer stiffens, his half-lidded eyes flickering fully open as his anxiety rachets up, but Hotch isn’t done: “I’m going to stop, leave you like this… sticky and covered in what I’ve done to you. And we’re going to keep practising until you’re better and then, and only then, I’m going to go home and fuck my hand while thinking of you under me. And I’m going to do that every day you turn me on, Reid… just like I have every day since I met you.”

“Christ,” Spencer squeaks, staring at him now like he’s not sure if he’s still aroused or not.

Hotch leans closer, his voice a slow promise. “And when you do better… some day soon, when you don’t miss anymore, maybe I’ll let you come home with me too.”

Spencer just shakes his head, pulling loose and looking down at the hand Hotch has slipped from his pants, the mess they’ve made of them both. “We’re not even on first name terms and I could name at least five of your kinks,” he says finally, surprising Hotch. “And we’ve broken at least eight regulations together, three of which are a fireable offence.”

Hotch smiles at that and says, “Just call me Hotch.”

Spencer nods slowly. “Right,” he says. “Well, I don’t want to seem forward, but—” Intrigued as to what could _possibly_ be forward now, with Spencer’s come drying on his fingers, Hotch raises an eyebrow and waits for him to steel himself and ask: “Could I have your cell number?”

That…’s not what Hotch expected. “What for?” he asks, before realising that’s a stupid question. He blames it on his still-aching arousal, furious that he’s going to make it wait.

But Spencer surprises him. Instead of cringing back or looking away, he just smiles warily and says, “I’m an aural learner. I’ll improve much faster if you really… hammer… the point home. Besides, it’s hardly a punishment if I don’t _know_ that you’re enjoying yourself without me, is it?”

He’s not wrong. He’s _definitely_ not _shy_ , either.

Feeling like maybe this man isn’t as easy to read as he looks, Hotch gives it to him. He’s determined not to call, determined not to give Spencer the satisfaction of picking up on one of Hotch’s kinks as easily as Hotch had picked up how much he’ll do for a kind word: all the quiet, gorgeous sounds people make when they’re too distracted to focus on not making noise. There’s no way he’s going to give his student an inch—or eight—until he’s damn good and ready to do so on his own terms.

He’s wrong.

 

 

When Hotch calls that night, Spencer knows better than to speak. He’s midway through cooking his dinner with one of the FBI’s many rulebooks propped against his counter, lowering the pasta to simmer as he leans against the same counter with his eyes closed and palming his own cock through his pants listening to the rough sounds of breathing on the other end of the line. It should be creepy. It should be terrifying. If it had happened without consent, without knowledge, it would be. But, like this? Knowing this is Spencer getting one up on the man who has had him on the edge since day one?

It’s thrilling.

He hears Hotch come, picturing him on his bed with his cock in one hand, his phone in the other, and there’s a slow silence after where neither hangs up or speaks. The mental scoreboard Spencer is keeping has one tick on his side now, and he savours it proudly.

“Pleased with yourself?” Hotch asks finally, a small hint of grouchiness in his voice. The man doesn’t like losing.

“Very,” he answers, watching his pasta slowly boil over as he decides to be reckless: leap in with both feet forward. If he’s going to fuck his supervisor, he might as well make it worth it. “Hey, Hotch?”

“Yeah?”

He breathes in. Breathes out. Steels himself.

And smiles, knowing the cocky smile comes through in his voice.

“Tomorrow night? I call you.” He leans closer to the phone, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “After all… you expect me to perform on call in class. There? I’m all yours. But here, right now, like this… it’s my turn.”

Hotch’s stunned silence is all the answer Spencer needs. He adds another mental tick to his scoreboard: it’s game on, and he doesn’t like losing either.


	2. It all started with a drink.

It might have started in the gun range, the sex that is, but the game really starts with a drink. To be specific, it starts with several.

Cat and mouse continues, with no quarter given. They’re both determined to drive the other to distraction. Hotch doesn’t let up at practise, always in Spencer’s personal space with his hands everywhere and his body heat sparking up every part of Spencer’s body all at once. Spencer doesn’t let up at home—some nights he’s so pissed at how easily Hotch makes him beg to do better that he goes home and refuses to call. At some point, their agreement for Spencer to call to listen to Hotch finishing the job himself has changed. At some point, Spencer had forced it to.

They’d left the gun range together this night, wordlessly gravitating together on some unspoken desire for each other. Neither had wanted to call it a night; Spencer can tell they’re both aroused by the idea of continuing this fraught tension they have building. Somehow, this culminates in them going drinking together, a quiet bar with private booths and no eyes on them.

Somehow, that culminates in this: they’re in the alley together, Spencer against the wall and Hotch crowding close, the scent of alcohol wafting around them and both sober enough to realise they’re bordering obsessed with the other. It’s not just sex anymore.

Spencer dreams of Hotch nightly now, his brain spellbound by the idea of the man climaxing—a sight he’s still not been gifted and that has obtained some kind of reverence in his brain. He wonders if Hotch dreams of him and doubts it. After all, he’s not exactly playing hard to fuck.

“You’re not actually as submissive as you want me to think you are, are you?” Hotch asks on this one day, too close and too alive in the brick and cobblestone alley, the dark barely hiding them both. Spencer’s torn between arching back into him and asking him to give him a hand in the way they both want him to or dropping to his knees and trying to change the game completely. “As soon as you had a chance, you tried to regain some element of power. The phone calls—they’re your game now, not mine, even though they didn’t start off that way.”

Spencer looks at him, knowing that his eyes are all heat and hardness right now, much like what’s going on in his pants. It’s probably cruel to turn and lean nonchalantly back as he answers, making sure his hips are cocked in just the way that shows the curve of his interested dick, but it’s not like either of them are against acting like cats in heat around each other anymore. It works. Despite his eyes remaining locked on Spencer’s face as he waits for his question to be answered, Hotch glances back to make sure they’re alone before stepping close enough that his fingers can stroke gently along that curve, dancing on the cotton-blend fabric of Spencer’s trousers with just enough pressure to try to coax movement from his hips. And, with his eyes locked on that stroking hand over the bulge that’s growing more defined under the attention and fascinated by how blatantly Hotch likes to touch him, Spencer considers his answer.

“You profiled me from the lectern of a hall when I was several rows above you and lost in a sea of faces,” he says finally, giving in and rolling his hips a little, a warm rush of pleasure beginning to unspool his senses. “You knew I’d be open to your advances. Knew I’d appreciate the voyeuristic thrill, the threat both our sexual exploits and your status expose me to. The fact that I was attracted to you is unimportant, really—half the class wants to fuck you and the other half likely equate you with power fantasies based around the easy acquisition of sex by the supremely attractive.”

“What’s your point? Aside from calling me supremely attractive.” Hotch gives him a look that’s more dangerous than the public sex, an almost too-human look that’s a step away from a fond smile. Just to seal that look, his dark eyes hard to see under the floppy dark hair that’s silky and fine and entirely out of Spencer’s reach, he presses his body close, hand trapped between them adding _too much_ pressure to Spencer’s cock—which responds with a spark of hot hunger, thinking sex is immanent—and then slides down him to his knees with no regard for his suit.

“I’m not hard for you to profile. You already know the answer to your question.” But Spencer is distracted because now there’s a mouth over his crouch, hot breath through his pants, and his hands are threading through that silky hair almost without his conscious control.

Hotch smiles into his trousers, tipping his head back just enough to look at Spencer through the bangs that Spencer is always worried he’s going to cut back into a more severe style. “I do,” he says, Spencer panting now, aroused beyond belief. “But I also want you to prove it.”

“How?”

That mouth presses hard to the bulge that’s wet and noticeable now, tongue flat to the fabric as Hotch whispers, “Control me,” into it. “Prove you can. Prove you want to. You want to be an FBI agent? Show me that you’re in control against someone who can outshoot, outrun, and overpower you.” To illustrate his point, he shoves hard, Spencer’s back hitting the wall as Hotch makes a low, hungry noise into his crotch and lays his tongue flat, just the promise of how fantastic he’d be with Spencer’s cock actually in his mouth. “Do _better_.”

There’s very little that Spencer wouldn’t do to come right now, pushed right to the brink without skin even touching skin yet, and it’s not his larger brain that’s in control to his response to this. Respond he does, almost without thought, like some imaginary part of him has been waiting for this moment. Hands tighten hard in Hotch’s hair, pulling his mouth tighter as a sound Spencer’s never made before slips from his mouth, a half-growl, half-gasp. Fingers tight to the warm scalp, that wonderful hair, he taps his hips forward in a silent command to _get me off, then_. Hotch fights him for a second, not in any way that’s serious or angry, but just because he can. Spencer gives as good as he gets until he’s standing—not pushed back against the wall anymore—and it’s Hotch supporting his weight as he slips a leg over his shoulder and uses it to pin him close, wincing as his zip is ground hard against him. The pain is sharp but not entirely unwanted; he tips his head back and just _breathes_ for a moment, until that mouth pulls away as Hotch fights his leg’s grip and tries to get his hands up to undo Spencer’s pants and get his cock out.

Spencer’s fingers pull tight, a warning tug. Hotch stills, fingers frozen on the zip and his heart slamming through his back against Spencer’s calf.

“What?” he asks, head cocked back to look up at Spencer, eyes dangerously dark and mouth wet. Despite the wild feeling of _want_ that makes him giddy when he sees those lips and pictures them around him, Spencer smirks with every inch of sass he possesses and tries to find his words. He fails, but Hotch understands anyway, his eyebrows raising. “No touching skin?”

No. This is a _challenge._ He’ll have Hotch working under him using nothing but his body language, much the same way he flirted with him initially.

“No touching, huh,” Hotch repeats, looking back at Spencer’s crotch and thinking for a moment. “Okay.” Despite this, he still slowly undoes Spencer’s fly, tugging the zip down and away so it can’t dig in inconveniently anymore. And he dips forward, Spencer’s fingers relaxed in his hair as he waits to see what he’ll do. What he does is this: he reminds Spencer that he’s not an easy man to read.

His tongue flicks through, a long, wet line along Spencer’s cotton-clad cock, hands helping pull his pants aside until he finds the tip and tastes the wet patch there; Spencer watches him savour the taste, knows that’s what he’s doing as he pauses over it and makes a humming _mm_ sound that thrums right through the other man. It’s ridiculously hot and Spencer responds with a small buck of his hips, an unholy whimper from his own mouth, and another spurt of pre-come to add to the mess. But, then he looks back up, smirks at Spencer, and Spencer realises: he’s not in control here. Not even a little. And, with that sudden flush of cold-hot-thrill, Hotch is suddenly out from under his leg, shoving him to the wall and pressing so hard to him that he doesn’t think he can breathe anymore. Mouth so close to Spencer’s that when Spencer’s tongue flicks out to wet his, he tastes the salty-bite of his own pre-come as his tongue brushes Hotch’s lip.

“Not good enough,” Hotch says, shifting around so the air that comes with these words brushes Spencer’s ear, his whole body on fire from every touch and his cock trapped by the hard leg Hotch has shoved between his thighs. His intention is clear: he’s saying ‘fine, I’ll just make you _writhe_ ,’ and just the implication alone is dizzying. “By this point, I’ve disarmed you—” Hands catch Spencer’s pinning them to his side, Hotch’s arms wrapping tight around him. “—distracted you—” A mouth on his throat, nudging his shirt aside and sucking hard on the bared skin. “—and now _I’m_ in control. You’re at my mercy, and do you know why?”

Spencer shakes his head, realising his whole body is trembling and his hips have betrayed him, rutting hard against Hotch’s leg like he’s a teenager having his first taste of dry humping all over again, that first ever tantalising cusp of coming against another person within his grasp.

“Because you’re barely adequate, Spencer. You don’t have what it takes it control me.”

Spencer comes.

Hard.

When he blinks himself back into his brain, Hotch is holding him upright and staring at him with worried eyes, bracing him against the wall and calling his name in a soft voice to avoid attracting adverse attention from the mouth of the alley.

“Christ, Reid,” he says when Spencer grins guiltily at him, looking down at staring, flummoxed, at the mess he’s made of them both. “That’s a bizarre kink you have. I’d be more concerned if I was your shrink instead of the man fucking it out of you—what?”

Spencer’s still looking down at what he can see of their trouser fronts in the gloom of they alley, the sedate happiness of coming fading sharply as he realises: there’s no way he made _that_ much mess.

“You came,” he says, feeling a little betrayed that he _missed_ it—how did he miss it?! He was right here! “When did you come?”

It’s Hotch’s turn to look guilty now. “When you did,” he responds, trying to retain his dignity with his pants stained to hell. “You were… unexpectedly arousing.”

Spencer is pissed. He can tell Hotch knows and is amused by it.

Maybe, more accurately, it had begun with the drink that had led them out here—but it’s the come on Hotch’s pants that cements it: he refuses to let this man beat him.

Time to exceed expectations.

 

 

Reid doesn’t call that night.

Or the next one.

Or the next.

Hotch is starting to get concerned that maybe he pissed the man off—maybe when commenting on just how unhealthy it is that he gets off _that_ hard to being lied to. It’s starting to grate on Hotch the wrong way and he doesn’t know why. When they’d started this thing that they were doing, it was all about sex and those teasing, tantalising eyes watching him from the lecture hall above. And since it was just about sex, about profiling each other’s kinks and seeing how hard they could play them, it didn’t really bother him that Spencer’s were, well, false. Hotch has tested it—the man is uninterested in being told he’s unique or special, during sex or otherwise, but there’s a keen-edged hunger to being degraded that he responds to like a fine-tuned wire. And Hotch doesn’t know why it bothers him now when it didn’t before—maybe because he’s starting to sour on the feel of the words on his tongue, when he doesn’t believe that there’s anything just ‘adequate’ about Spencer Reid anymore. Not his brain, not his hands or his mouth or his body, not his heart. Despite never discussing their lives, Hotch can see how much he cares for the world in everything he does.

It’s probably thinking that that clues him in.

Or maybe it’s the dreams.

They begin the second night Spencer doesn’t call. They’re on a short break from classes and Hotch has never wanted to go back to work more, lying awake for most of the night wondering if he can text and ask if he wants to catch up for practise without sounding desperate. Instead, he goes to sleep still wondering.

They’re in the lecture hall, the seats full of faces and Spencer on his lap. Displayed in front of the class for all to see, he has his arms around Spencer, his hands splayed on his back to support him, and his head tipped back to allow access to his throat. It doesn’t matter that there are a hundred students watching or that he’s openly vulnerable like this; all that matters is that Spencer is grinding deliciously into him with his pretty mouth on Hotch’s throat. Their dicks trapped together, their grips tight, and Spencer is moaning _Aaron_ as he slowly gets him off.

“Spencer,” he whines, trying to hug him even closer, but he can’t. He can’t pull him as close as he wants, even as he jolts and realises in both his waking mind and sleeping that he’s coming, in front of everyone, alone in his bed, and he wakes sticky and shaking and in over his head.

The next night, it’s on his desk in the bullpen of the BAU as Rossi reads him a case. In that one, Spencer has his cock in his mouth and Hotch is captivated by the look in his eyes—there’s nothing lustful about it, he’s absolutely engrossed with holding Hotch’s gaze with his.

The next night, they’re doing nothing but lying naked in bed together. When Hotch wakes up, he can’t remember what Reid looks like naked—despite desperately wanting to—and he’s starting to realise that he hasn’t been in control for a while now.

He breaks and calls first.

“I can’t concentrate,” he blurts out as soon as Reid answers. “I’m waiting for you to call and you _haven’t,_ and I’m a little concerned as to what that means for my state of mind.”

“Very little, in all honestly,” Reid replies in a voice that’s cheerful enough that all of Hotch’s worries fade instantly. “It’s become a habit, my calling you after we spend time engaged in sexual pursuits. Your body expects the call to come preceding release. However, I didn’t call, so it hasn’t found that release.”

Hotch blinks and thinks back.

He hasn’t jacked off since the alley. Normally, before the phone calls, he’d come home and get himself off as many times as he needed to to fade Reid’s eyes from his mind. After they started calling, that had adapted—eventually, he’d enjoyed the calls so much, savoured the way they were so much more satisfying than coming alone, that he’d just… habituated.

“I’m not wrong, am I? You haven’t masturbated since the last time I called you.”

Hotch settles on his couch, trying to readjust his worldview. Once again, he’d underestimated Reid’s grasp of human behaviour. “I haven’t,” he admits finally, huffing as Spencer makes a gleeful noise. “I have had… dreams. Though.” That’s embarrassing to admit to, even when their relationship is entirely based on their ability to be hypersexual beings around each other. “About you.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, before asking, “Sexual dreams?”

“Yes.” The burn of shame trickles from his face down to his chest, and then further down yet as Spencer’s voice turns from gleeful to hungry. “You’re a pervert. I can hear how much you enjoy that.”

“Hardly. Anyone would find the idea of someone they’re sexually intimate with having climactic dreams of them titillating. Behaviourally, this is the _least_ stimulating of my interests. You, however, are fascinating.” His breath puffs against the microphone as he moves around; Hotch can hear bedding being shaken and moved and looks at the clock, realising with a jolt that it’s past ten—the usual time when Spencer had used to call him. Like it’s suddenly snapped awake, his dick twitches with interest in his sweatpants, which he ignores. He’s not at Spencer’s beck and call—the sound of the man’s voice over the phone will _not_ condition him to arousal. But he’s speaking again: “I have a proposition.”

“Oh?”

“You’re right—when we’re together, I’m not in control. You’re bigger than me and stronger, and I’m insecure in the face of that. You’re in your element. Well, I disagree with your assumption that that will handicap me as an agent. In an interrogation or interview, the people I face won’t be in their element—they’ll be in mine. At the mercy of my ability to read and understand their behaviour, much like you are now.”

Hotch’s gut drops to his dick, every part of his body alive at the stark _confidence_ being shown here.

“The only weapon I need is my voice,” Reid finishes.

Hotch stares at the fuzzy reflection of himself in his switched off TV, aware that his sweatpants are tented—also aware that he’s not inclined to do anything about that unless he’s somehow coaxed into it, like there’s some unspoken signal Spencer’s always given him before he’s gotten off before. “What’s your proposition?” he rasps out, fingers slippery on his cell.

“When we’re together, nothing changes,” Reid says quietly with a sweet promise of their continued trysts in his voice. “But, like this? On the phone? Aaron, you are _mine_. You don’t come unless I tell you to. This is the _only_ time you come, understand?”

He calls him Aaron.

He calls him _Aaron._

_Fuck you_ , Hotch thinks first, his brain immediately misfiring and demanding that he buck those instructions. He bends for no one, not Rossi, not Gideon, not this barely twenty-something little genius with his cardigan and stupid hair.

But Reid laughs, his voice amused, light. He’s having fun. “I think you’ll find you’re more on board with it then you feel right now. I’m going to hang up now and let you mull. I won’t be asleep for hours yet though…” And the line clicks off, leaving Hotch sitting there staring at his reflection still, having said nothing. Fighting with the twist of emotions in his gut and his brain.

_Fuck you,_ he thinks again with a snort, getting up and striding to his room. Suddenly desperate for bed, to be alone. He’s not going to call back. He’s going to prove that he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be controlled like that—if he did, he’d have let Reid keep the upper hand back in the alley. It’s that simple. Reid is _wrong_.

And if the first thing he does in bed is strip naked and take his cock in hand, that’s nothing to do with Reid. It’s everything to do with how wound up he is, working himself too hard and too fast to try and find the first deliberate release he’s had since the alley.

And if he realises that he can’t come, that he can’t find that edge and throw himself over, well, that’s nothing to do with Reid either. It’s just because he’s tense. It’s because he’s frustrated. It’s because he has _issues_ with not feeling in control.

Sleep, he decides, and lays there until he manages to at least find that, his erection subsiding at the night ticks on. There. He doesn’t need…

The dream is a mess. It’s every sexual situation he’s ever wanted all jumbled into one, just a collage of moments of skin on skin and his body being touched. One minute he’s fucking someone, the next he’s the one being fucked, the next he’s curled on his side playing big spoon to the person beside him, nudging his dick in gently as they whimper with desire.

He wakes suddenly and hard as hell, curled around a pillow with his cock trapped against it, desperate to come. Absolutely desperate and he’s reaching for his cell before consciously realising what he’s doing, despite the three on his bedside clock proclaiming how late it is.

Reid answers on the second ring, sounding shockingly awake.

“I accept,” Hotch pants into the phone, his voice half-asleep and _fucked_ with how worked up he is. “Please, Reid, please. Tell me what to do?”

Reid makes a pleased noise, moving on his end of the phone—rolling in bed, from the sounds of it. But he doesn’t give in. Of course he doesn’t.

He has all the power here.

“First you have to give up,” he says, Hotch making a frustrated noise as his body _aches_. “Control, Aaron. You have to give up control.”

“How?”

More sheets rustling. Hotch wonders if he’s naked, pictures that, and he’s gone. If Spencer was here with him, he’d have requested to fuck him. To be fucked. To anything, so long as they were touching.

The answer is simple.

“Beg.”

Hotch has never in his life begged for anything. Not once. And he doubts he’d have done it for absolutely anyone else.

But he does for Spencer. He begs for what Spencer can give him, until Spencer agrees to give it; it’s the strangest moment when Spencer tells him to obey and he _does_. Not just in behaviour but in everything. There’s no push-back, no brain fighting to regain the upper hand. Instead, Spencer tells him to do as he says and some great weight slips from his shoulders, some tension unwinds. He’s still hard and trembling, still desperate, but calmer about it now because it’s out of his hands.

When Spencer tells him to come, he does. It’s easy then, so easy, and he loses himself in that easiness. Loses himself completely, floating for a minute in his brain as his body does a hard reset with come cooling on his bare stomach, his fingers trailing in it, his other hand still holding the phone where Spencer is softly telling him that he’s _fantastic._ Fantastic, not adequate, and there’s that kick of guilt again.

He thinks that he says thank you or asks Spencer if he had fun or any of those options; instead, when he wakes up in the morning, it’s to an uncomfortable mess on his skin and his phone flat beside him on the bed. Battery dead and, when he charges it, a single text waiting.

> **In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t creepily listen to you sleep. I read to you. That’s possibly just as disturbing, but I thought your unconscious would find the paper I’m reading interesting. Incidentally, the agreement stands. You only get to control me if I get to control you. I’ll know if you disobey.**

“I’m in over my head,” Hotch tells the text glumly, aware that it’s the truth. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do for this man, he fears, and that includes this.

And he has no idea how to tell him that that’s because he’s falling in love with him, because he’s sure that this is the one thing Spencer will never manage to profile. It’s not just sex anymore and he’s a little bit regretting the drink that’s led to this realisation.

Rossi’s going to kill him.


	3. Yesterday, everything was different.

There’s a horrifying moment when Spencer takes his usual seat for his lecture and looks up to find a grey-haired man standing at the front of the room, introducing himself as their usual trainer back from long-service leave. Hotch hadn’t warned him—hadn’t reminded him that their time here was coming to an end—and there’s a sick drop in Spencer’s gut as something innate inside him braces for a disappointment he can tell is going to be crushing. The lecture passes in a blur, the information barely sticks, and he dazedly walks from the room with a feeling like something has ended.

“Dr Reid?” says a voice he knows, a voice that only last night he’d heard panting his name over the crackly line of their cells. When he turns, Hotch is there, his ‘professional’ face in place and only just covering the smile that creeps into the corners when he sees him. “Could I see you alone for a moment? It’s about your last piece of assessment.”

He follows, heart thrumming. It’s okay. They’re okay.

They’re better than okay.

“He came back two weeks earlier than expected,” Hotch tells him quietly as they walk down a hall, looking around before tugging him into an empty conference room and leaning his back against the door. Spencer props his hip on a table, eyeing him up and down without hiding the approval, appreciating his nicely knotted tie and neat shirt, before trailing his gaze up to his face. “But I’m glad he did.”

“Sick of teaching me?” Spencer teases, only a little disconcerted that maybe the answer is ‘yes’.

Instead, his answer is Hotch surging forward and pressing him against the table, both of his hands landing on his face and holding him steady as he kisses him like they haven’t kissed yet. It’s rough and wanting, which they’ve always been, but it’s also something that’s different to how they’d kissed yesterday and every day before it. There’s something fresh, something excited, and their lips linger together as the fire in the gesture fades and leaves them doing nothing but brushing their mouths together and breathing. Spencer is dazed and Hotch doesn’t seem much clearer, leaning back just enough to brush his nose against Spencer’s and cause a hiccup of emotion to bubble up in Spencer’s chest, threating to pop and make him say something stupid. Despite the fact that Hotch has him pinned to a desk, despite how close they’re crushed together, Spencer isn’t aroused by this moment.

And that’s different too.

“I’m not your teacher anymore,” Hotch murmurs, causing another hiccup—this time worry—to form. But he finishes quietly with a question that’s laced with longing and echoed in the tantalising wonder in his eyes. “Come on a date with me?”

Spencer’s brain takes a moment to compute that, before catching up and flinging a “What?!” from his mouth that sounds more stunned than he meant it to. Hotch, for a heartbeat, pulls away, his expression cooling just slightly. “No, I mean, like a date date?”

“A date date,” is the confirmation. “I won’t get my ass kicked over it now, so let me take you out. Dinner, a movie, anything.”

Spencer _could_ point out that the FBI doesn’t draw the line of fraternisation between ‘fucking’ and ‘dating’, but instead he just grins like an idiot. “You mean a no sex date like two old romantics, don’t you? Why Agent Hotchner, I do think you have a crush on little old me.”

But the teasing backfires because, instead of laughing at his mock Southern Belle accent, Hotch just catches his mouth with his once more and kisses him hungrily, both of them releasing their breath at the end with a _whompf_ , Hotch’s fingers trailing down his jaw. “I definitely do, Doctor,” he replies, eyes dark and voice darker. “And I plan to prove it. Incidentally, I never said it was a no sex date. That is absolutely on the cards.”

And things are different now, but Spencer’s pretty sure that he _definitely_ doesn’t mind.

 

* * *

 

Hotch goes all out because he’s actually a fifteen-year-old boy just desperate to impress his winter formal date. His nicest suit, his finest tie, the cologne that Rossi gave him two Christmases ago. It’s a close thing, but he manages to talk himself out of buying a bouquet of flowers for his _date_ , instead spotting a copy of an old sci-fi novel he used to love as a child in the budget bin outside an old bookstore and grabbing that. He doesn’t wrap it—the presentation isn’t important, nor is the quality of the story. What he’s giving Spencer in this book is more than just a cursory gift grabbed on a whim.

And he’s never been surer that he’s doing the right thing than when he meets Spencer at the restaurant with the reservation for two and sees the look on his face when he hands over the book.

“I didn’t get you—” Spencer begins, looking at the book, but stops. Hotch knows why. He’d been about to apologise for not returning a gift, even though him here, him agreeing to do this, is a gift in itself. Especially dressed as he is, in a neatly pressed waistcoat over a nice shirt, both of which are wonderfully tight around the chest that Hotch wants to _see_ before the night is out. But Spencer doesn’t apologise—he understands. He’s always understood. Right from the first moment they’d started this, they’ve understood each other.

What Hotch has given him in that book, the clearly well-loved childhood novel, is an in. It’s a step right past what they are to each other right now and into something more.

It’s an opening.

“How old were you when you read it first?” Spencer asks. Later, Hotch will probably pinpoint this as the exact moment he hurtles from crush into love, but at the time he doesn’t realise this. He just answers. And, just like that, they’re past friends who fuck and squarely into the ‘something more’.

They spend their dinner learning each other and, when they pay the bill and walk out shoulder-to-shoulder, Hotch doesn’t remember anything about what they ate: just Spencer’s favourite book when he was three, how he’d always bruised his knee on one particular slide, and his penchant for mixing foods that shouldn’t be mixed. He knows why the man wears odd socks. He knows about his mother. He knows that Spencer wishes he was more and worries that he’s less and he’s told Spencer just as much about himself. Outside, the night is just beginning and they’re not anywhere near ready to end, torn between not wanting to go home quite yet and just wanting to be together. Hotch wants to touch him. He wants to hold the man with all this new knowledge of him in mind, he wants to kiss him like they’re new to each other again. Something new they’ve never done before, some reason to be different.

“I’m probably too old for this,” he thinks out loud, watching Spencer turn his head to study him curiously, “but would you like to go dancing?”

There’s an obvious hesitation in Spencer’s eyes, a nervous reticence, but he doesn’t say no. He just looks around, takes Hotch’s hand, presses close, and murmurs, “No, but I’m willing to try.”

He says it in the kind of way that Hotch knows is contextual; with anyone else, on any other night—any other night that they weren’t busy falling in love with the other—his answer would have been to decline. But this isn’t any other night, and there’s a look in his eyes that mirrors the one Hotch knows is in his. A tenderness to their fingers as they brush together without either catching hold. A hitch to their breathing when contact is made.

There’s nothing quite as intoxicating as knowing that they’re falling together, Hotch thinks, except perhaps the first day he’d realised Spencer had wanted him as bad as he had Spencer. And there are no games tonight, no cat and mouse, no battles for control—tonight, because they have to be to start this out right, they’re on even ground.

They go somewhere they doubt anyone from the Bureau will be, a back-alley nightclub catered to clientele who don’t want to party in public. It’s smoky and private with high-walled booths and expensive drinks that move fast once they laugh over the names and move on to actually tasting them. That’s Spencer’s contribution—Hotch would prefer a harder drink than the mixes he’s given, but Spencer insists that the night demands a touch of youth from the both of them. It’s not a complete loss, although Hotch shudders to think what Rossi would do with a photo of him sipping from a fine-stemmed champagne flute with strawberries bobbing within. All that’s missing is the umbrella, which he nabs from Spencer’s drink as the man tries to puzzle out the purpose of the single, oddly shaped ice cube within. The music here is faster than Hotch prefers but still slow enough that he knows how to dance to it, as soon as enough of their strange, fruity drinks have been tipped into Spencer to get him past his nervous panic at being out on the darkened dancefloor.

And this is definitely new, this kind of teaching. Instead of correcting the man’s posture as he slouches his way through the gun range, Hotch has him pulled close as he tries to show him how to move with the beat. Spencer is stiff and awkward, his eyes flickering everywhere but on Hotch, his hands everywhere but where they should be. Finally, Hotch hooks his fingers through the belt loops of the other man’s pants and pulls him tight, unconcerned about being seen in this crowd of people who don’t care that he exists, interested singularly in the man against him with his heart the only thing rhythmic about him. He tucks close, using one hand to cover the ear he’s not whispering into, the other to cup his mouth to be heard.

“Relax,” he says first, seeing Spencer’s mouth move but unable to hear the response over the music. “Close your eyes.” That’s greeted by a wary stare, the humour in those hazel eyes the only reassuring thing. Spencer’s nervous but he’s not overwhelmed, and that’s something they can work with. “Spence, close them. Don’t dance to the music—dance with me. Just let me move you. It’s like firing your gun. You trust me then, so trust me now too.”

And Spencer does. He closes his eyes and goes pliable in Hotch’s arms, letting Hotch move him with the music until something clicks and Hotch realises that they’re moving together. Spencer’s eyes are still shut, his hands sliding up Hotch’s chest to rest on his shoulders as he tucks his head close, but his movements are his own despite Hotch’s hands on his hips, and the smile on his mouth is real.

Hotch kisses that smile, tasting fruit, tasting vodka. Kisses it again and feels Spencer shiver to life against him, his hands coming up to cup Hotch’s mouth as he nips and catches Hotch’s lip, holding it for a heartbeat with his tongue flicking against it. Asking permission. Hotch lets his mouth slip open, welcoming the man’s attention, until suddenly they’re both all hunger and heat, hands roaming and kissing so fiercely that Hotch is sure his mouth is going to be sore after. If there are other people around them, they hardly matter right now. Nothing matters but this, as the music changes and quickens, a heavier, thudding bass beat slamming through them both, Hotch sliding his hands around to pull Spencer tighter to him via the man’s ass, gratified to realise it’s just as nice to hold as it looks in what are clearly his most well-fitting trousers. They break apart to breathe, Spencer’s eyes huge as he stares at him. Contacts, tonight, not glasses.

The alcohol hits at some point, hits them hard. Hotch is sweat-soaked and overheated, his suit jacket tossed over the back of a chair along with Spencer’s waistcoat, leaving them both in their shirts as the night strolls on. It’s when Spencer is returning from the bar with two more drinks and a bottle of water to share that something else hits Hotch too: how damn good Spencer looks tonight, with his face flushed from exercise and his pants tight around his waist, tailored nicely to his ass and his thighs, his shirt clinging close from the sweat they’ve worked up. His hair has fallen from neatly combing into a tangle over his ears and eyes, his fine mouth pink from kissing.

“One more dance and then we should go home,” Hotch says to him, a shiver working its way all the way through him at the thought of what’s to come. Spencer agrees, giving Hotch a look that suggests they’re in the same frame of mind, a look that layered with heat and interest. They drain their drinks, finish the water, and slip back out to find a corner to dance alone together in.

This time is different. Hotch knows as soon as he wraps his arms around Spencer’s neck and Spence immediately kisses him. The kiss is different. The dance is different. They not so much moving with the beat as they are rocking against it, Spencer pressing close and moving in all the most interesting kinds of ways. And Hotch has never understood how intimate dancing could be, until now when the way Spencer is shifting against him is simulating everything they’ve done to each other before. The kissing is a new addition to the writhing shift of their bodies together, Hotch distantly realising that his hands have slid loose and found their way up Spencer’s shirt and are currently tracing the muscles of his lower back. It’s the kissing that does it. It’s new and it’s heated and it’s laced with feeling, and, as they breathe each other in and refuse to let the either go, Hotch couldn’t stop and pull away if he’d wanted. When the song ends and they don’t, another beginning without a pause, the quiet build is just enough that Hotch alone hears Spencer moan slightly.

“You’re hard,” Spencer tells him, his eyes endless. Some part of Hotch was already aware of this; that part is distant and obscured by the fact that every part of Hotch is aroused right now and has been since they’ve started dancing, every part of him is alive at the touch of the man’s hands against him. “Aaron, keep— _yes_ , like that. Keep that, _oh_.” The oh is breathless. It’s broken and half groaned into Hotch’s lip, Spencer’s entire body trembling with it as he practically squirms in Hotch’s arms for a moment. When it snaps off, it’s because he’s bitten down, catching Hotch’s lip hard and sucking, the music and alcohol and surge of heat all combining to pull Hotch down hard into him. To keep doing what he’s doing, which is dancing in just the right way to press them together, each skull-thudding beat another kick of his hips to sway forward hard and grind against the solid line of Spencer’s pants.

“This is what you do to me,” Hotch rumbles, dizzy now. They’re going to have to sit down. Spencer seems to realise this, pulling away just slightly and leading them across to their booth. A small part of Hotch wishes they could leave now—go home and deal with the tenting of Spencer’s trousers that he knows is there but is obscured by the smoky dimness of the club from other prying eyes. The rest of him realises he needs to sit down for a bit before leaving the premises, calm down enough that they can get some water into them both.

But Spencer has other plans. He pours Hotch into the booth, waiting for him to slide around to the back, then slides in after him. Before Hotch can think to groan, he has his over-eager date straddling his lap, wrapping his knees around either side of Hotch’s hips and lowering himself until they’re flush together and they can continue kissing.

Hotch is never going to be able to kiss anyone again without comparing it to this, not ever. He’s ruined. But he can’t linger on that for too long because the position Spencer has them in is dangerous. His weight on Hotch’s lap means their cocks are pressed together, every shift of their bodies only adding to the friction and heat, every throb of interest either of them feels transmitted immediately into the other. Hotch moans once, barely choking it off, and his own cock jolts painfully in response to feeling Spencer’s _throb_ against him. It’s too close, too much, too intimate. But he never wants it to end, conscious of the eyes that could be watching them, the vulnerable position they’re in, the alcohol and the music and—

Spencer goes rigid, every inch of him seizing tight as he bows close and sucks in a rough breath with his mouth pressed to the join of Hotch’s throat to his shoulder. For a second, Hotch thinks he’s coming and has to steady himself through that, but then Spencer grits out a tight, “Don’t move or I’m, _fuck,_ too close already, too close,” and Hotch realises it’s worse. It’s worse than the unparalleled arousal of having Spencer come while pressed so tightly to him; instead, it’s the temptation of being able to nudge him over the edge even though he’s trying to fight it.

He’s not sure he’s the kind of person who’s strong enough to resist that urge, his own body tightening in anticipation.

He kisses him instead. Starting off slow, tender. Soft brushes of his lips against Spencer’s, the other man unmoving as he tries to think himself off the edge. As soon as he starts to reciprocate, his breath coming a little easier, his body not wound so tight, Hotch moves again. Gentle brushes of his hips into the other man, a soft friction. An invitation. Just gentle enough that Spencer responds without thinking, his own body shifting with the move, not even realising he’s doing it. Another kiss, this one a little more demanding, a little fiercer, and, while he’s distracted, Hotch, slides his hands back around that ass and drags him tight, the kiss turning sharp, turning focused, bringing his hips up _hard_ and grinding into the hard weight against him as his hands pull Spencer down. It’s rough and heady and hungry and Spencer responds with a moan that’s guttural, grinding down too until his body slams to a stop one final time and he goes rigid and tight in Hotch’s arms. A shiver follows through his entire body until it culminates at his dick, their bodies so close that Hotch feels every inch of his climax through his own cock. A rush of heat, of warm and wet, Spencer’s fingers scrabbling at his shirt as his mouth seeks Hotch’s blinding; it’s the kiss that fucks him up.

He can feel Spencer unspooling through that kiss, feel his body relaxing into the feeling of coming, and it’s that that pushes him over. Locked tight and every muscle taut, he comes hard and keeps coming, Spencer making a quiet noise of glee as he realises. But that’s distant; all Hotch is aware of is closing his eyes and his mouth and trying to be as silent as possible as he adds to the mess, feeling Spencer’s dick twitch with a tired kind of interest as the man watches him for the first time.

When he opens his eyes, nothing has changed except the need to go home and change. No one has noticed them, no one cares that they’re being obscene together in this private booth that’s probably seen much the same happen too many times before.

Nothing has changed, except everything in the way Spencer is looking at him, his fingers still resting on Hotch’s now-crumpled shirt, his heart still beating hard with his cheeks flushed pink and skin shiny from sweat.

“I knew you’d be gorgeous,” Spencer tells him fondly, alighting a last kiss on his forehead before sliding free. “We should go. My house is closer.”

Hotch looks at him, wondering what he’s offering. Wondering if he’s going to be able to perform, with this much alcohol in his system and having already finished once.

But Spencer catches his hand, leaning close and murmuring, “I just want to wake beside you,” he says quietly. “Nothing more. And after all, if I’m to be crass—you did say when we begun this that I had to _earn_ your cock inside me.”

Hotch coughs out a shocked breath, sure he didn’t say that and stunned that Spencer voiced it even if he did. “I did not,” he splutters, sliding his suit jacket on as they sidle past the bouncer with twin smiles attempting to portray ‘we don’t have come in our pants’. “When did I say that?”

“You implied it. Anyway, I haven’t earned it yet. But you? You, Aaron Hotchner, deserve everything.”

Hotch is too drunk to try and convince Spencer that he does too. Instead, as they step out into the cold air with their fingers still entwined, he just sighs and asks if they can sleep together.

They do.

 

* * *

 

Spencer wakes quickly, immediately panicked that he’s going to wake alone. That the night before had been nothing but some wonderful dream. That Aaron hadn’t really come home with him, that they aren’t curled together in the nest of Spencer’s bed, that their clothes aren’t in a mixed pile near the door with the two normally-fastidious men too drunk to do more than pull clothes from each other and then tumble into the bed. One of them had managed the light, another had put water beside the bed. Spencer’s glad for whoever did so.

Then he relaxes, because the water is still there, his head doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, and there are two sets of clothes getting ruffled on the floor. He rolls over and also thanks whichever of them had insisted on washing before bed for the fact that he’s not flaky and uncomfortable right now.

Aaron is asleep behind him. One propped under his head, the other folded in front of him and the sheets kicked loose: he’s naked and gorgeous and so very here. Spencer stares openly, eyes trailing the shape of his arms, the defined muscles of his chest, the line of his hips. Pausing perversely on his dick, still entrancing even when flaccid and nestled in a bed of dark, trimmed hair that’s wiry and thick and very different from the wild curls Spencer sports between his legs. Further down yet to note that the man’s muscles continue down his thighs and calves and, honestly, Spencer picked the most toned kind of teacher to explore his professor kink with.

“Like what you see?” Aaron mumbles sleepily, one eye cracking open as he smiles at Spencer. With a jolt, Spencer notes his own nudity, automatically folding his arms over his lower abdomen to hide the roll of his stomach. “Don’t do that. Stop that. Don’t hide.”

“It’s…” Spencer looks down and trails off, unwilling to point out exactly what ‘it’ is. He’s skinny, sure, but it’s the undefined kind of skinny, all skin and bone with strange deposits of fat across his stomach that show when he sits like this, and for a moment he’s ashamed.

But Aaron just rolls his eyes and sits up, gesturing to himself. “It’s _normal,”_ he stresses, inching closer and reaching out to lay his hand to Spencer’s chest, pressing him down to incline on the bed once more. “You’re incredible, Spence. Do I look like I’m unattracted to you?”

Spencer supposes that that’s a no, since Aaron is openly admiring him now, his eyes lingering on Spencer’s crotch for just as long as Spencer’s had lingered on his—and there’s definite signs of interest in his no longer soft dick. But neither make a move because, much like the night before when they’d made it to bed, that’s not what either of them want from this.

Instead, they shuffle closer, curl together, and do nothing but lay skin-to-skin, dozing away their hangovers in a sleepy Sunday of nothing more than exactly what they already have.

And life continues much like that. It’s a bizarre step forward where everything is both the same and different. Spencer enjoys it as much as he hates it—he loves that they continue their sexual exploration, although they never have penetrative sex and, since he hasn’t managed to nail his target yet, he doesn’t question this. But he also hates that they dance around the more they could be, as though they’re waiting for something that hasn’t come yet. The phone calls fade to be replaced with nights spent curled in bed naked and kissing, sometimes getting each other off without any of their kinks intruding on moments they know are more than their hypersexuality. They still take risks, but none emotional. That is stopped, paused on the night of the date, and Spencer wonders if this is how they’re always going to be: waiting.

But it’s not.

The day comes that he graduates. He’s anxious and worried and side-by-side with all of those people he’d started with and worried he couldn’t match. There’s the guy who’d sat next to him in class and in front of him is the woman who is unsurprisingly proficient. Gideon is in the crowd for him, Aaron too, and this is the day he succeeds in what he’d leapt so rashly into.

In more ways than one.

He can’t hide his smile when he accepts his position as a newly minted Special Agent. It’s not just that he made it through, it’s not just the gravity of taking the oath that he feels in his _bones_ is who he is. There’s something in his car that he’s giddy about too, another sign beyond his career that he can and will succeed in everything he challenges himself with. Another thing borne of fear and worry, the clawing anxiety that had driven him out of his lonely bed early this morning and off to work off the panic culminating in something good. Something surprising.

When celebrations are done and he manages to slip away from Gideon for a breather, to pause and take in the day, Aaron comes up behind him.

“You’re fantastic,” he murmurs without touching. They can’t touch here. Not now—the thought doesn’t make Spencer as sad as it would have once, because there’s nothing stopping them going home together to touch there instead. In fact, he plans to ensure it. “Will you ever stop surprising me?”

“Never,” Spencer promises him keenly and honestly. “You know me. I’m rarely inadequate.”

The grin on Aaron’s face is worth the call-back to something Spencer had quickly realised Aaron hated. He won’t say the degradation isn’t still a turn-on to him—but there are definitely alternatives that do it better.

Like this.

“Come back to my car,” he tells Aaron, leading him there to find what’s rolled up on the backseat. Aaron unrolls it, studying the ten perfect shots right in the centre of the target. Each lined up carefully as the panic had faded from a steady hand, leaving him sure that his way forward was clear and true. “I think that means you owe me a, what was it? A ‘show’, I believe.”

Aaron’s grin is wide enough that Spencer knows he’s not the only one feeling giddy with this.

 

* * *

 

Spencer’s on his lap, knees to either side in a mimicry of their night at the club, although there are a few notable differences: one, they’re in Hotch’s bed instead of a sticky booth. Two, they’re far more naked than would have been allowed at even the shadiest club.

Three: Hotch is giving him every inch he’d promised he would.

It had been Hotch’s request, that their first time be like this. Face to face, no matter how much slower they have to go to be careful to avoid pulled muscles or slippage. Face to face, because there’s something about kissing the man he’s fucking right now that’s more intimate than the sex can ever be. Spencer uses his mouth with a fluidity that his dick can’t match, saying so much with so little that Hotch feels like he’s drowning in feeling when their lips meet. It’s hypnotic, the captured obsession he’d been worried about the first time he’d noted just how interested he was in the strange man in the grey cardigan. But he’s not worried anymore: he’s just fine with being obsessed with this man.

And they’re being slow, being careful, and Spencer is making every kind of noise to drive Hotch wild. Testing every inch of his patience, his ability to keep his head. He’s a tight, warm pressure around Hotch’s cock, his body tightening and shifting with every bunch of his muscles as he moves above him. Hotch just wraps his arms around the slim chest, tilts his neck back, and kisses him like he’d be willing to continue doing this for the rest of the night, if asked. Or the rest of his life—he’s the kind of man who commits. The bed creaks rhythmically under them, the pillows and sheets bunched up behind Hotch’s back, Spencer’s knees dragging the bedding out of place. The bedroom is silent but for the rasp of Hotch’s breath, Spencer’s soft gasps, the springs aching along with them, the whisper of sheets. Skin moving against skin, the wet narration of Hotch moving inside the man he’s dreamed of fucking for months, without ever getting close to the reality of this moment. In his dreams, Spencer was never this warm, never this receptive, never this real.

And he’d definitely never looked at him like he is right now, like he can’t stand to look away.

“What would you say,” Spencer chokes out, moving a little faster as Hotch feels his own body beginning to tighten and coil, unable to draw this out much longer when it’s all he’s been dreaming about since the first day of training, “if I told you that I’m dangerously close to being in love with you?”

“I’d tell you to tell me again when you’re not about to come,” Hotch manages to respond. They’re both moving faster now, along with the creak of the bed and the shared thump of their racing hearts, their breathing giving them away. “And to get in line. I’ve been there for months.”

The look he gets is all sass and heat, Spencer’s mouth curling into a smile at him. But he doesn’t speak again; instead, he just kisses him once more. They’re still kissing when Hotch moans into his mouth, arching up and coming hard. Spencer talks through it, of course he does—from the man who wouldn’t speak in class, he’s come far to become the one who won’t shut up during sex—but Hotch doesn’t hear a word through the rush of it. When he blinks himself steady, it’s to his steadily-softening cock still inside Spencer and a wet pool of come on his stomach, Spencer eyeing it guiltily.

“I missed it,” Hotch says, frowning. Now he knows why Spencer had been so sorry to have missed _him_ in the past. They’re going to have to practise their timing. “Why are you smirking?”

Because he is. It’s a beautiful moment, or so it’s supposed to be, but Spencer is wiggling loose and grinning like the Cheshire Cat that just got all the dick it could ever want, and that look alone is enough to immediately set alarm bells ringing.

“Oh nothing,” Spencer says with dangerous innocence. “I was just thinking… I mean, after all this… I definitely got an A, right?”


End file.
